


The Final Third of My Soul

by Yombatable



Series: YOMBAT WRITES THE OTP [27]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, M/M, Red String of Fate, Rewrite, is there such a thing as a write this again challenge because that's exactly what I did, legit it's just my other fic but re-written and infinitely better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 03:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8429197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yombatable/pseuds/Yombatable
Summary: Arthur had always dreamed of his soulmate, of a mysterious figure on a hill who would somehow swoop into his life and make him whole. And even though there isn't much swooping, his soulmate manages to complete him just fine.
(THIS IS A RE-WRITE OF A RED STRING OF FATE AND OTHER BOLLOCKS BUT BETTER BECAUSE THE OLD ONE IS B A D)





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I know I haven't written anything in a long time, and that's because shit happens and muses fuck off, but regardless, I still love these boys enough to sometimes go back and read my old fics and this one.... oh boy this one, the pacing was just........ so awful.... I couldn't take it. To the point where after not writing for six months I cranked this out in almost a single weekend.
> 
> (I'll probably re-write the omake too but just not rn because I wanna put this out before I lose my steam)
> 
> Holy shit. Anyway!
> 
> Enjoy! ;)

Arthur didn’t know much about his soulmate. Not through lack of desire mind you. Oh no, Arthur and his hopelessly romantic heart had always been curious about the woman or man (although statistics and his seeming lack of significant preference toward the latter seemed to point toward the former) who would end up on the other end of their string.

The person on the other end of his green platonic string he’d found when he was a young child, a boy his same age with brown hair that was so long he’d thought he was a girl (he refused to get it cut, ran away and screamed every time his parents tried so eventually they just let him be). He’d moved from Wales that same week as they met, the whole time making Arthur giddy because even as a three year old he knew that when the string wiggled a lot it meant they were close, that’s what his mother said.

Dylan was his name, and they spent the whole day they met hand-in-hand running and giggling around the pre-school. Both of their mothers loved to gush about how it was the cutest thing they’d ever seen. The two of them were inclined to believe them.

They were inseparable after that, and there was only ever one thing that ever bothered Arthur about Dylan, and that was that he didn’t have a red string, but that his second string was blue.

Arthur told him that he was probably just colour blind. Dylan always shrugged and said that a blue soulmate was better than a red soulmate anyway, and that Arthur was just jealous because he was stuck with lousy old red.

Arthur resented such a statement.

No, he loved his red string, even if the person on the other end of it, whoever they may be, were absolutely insufferable at the most inconvenient times.

For example: during a test in year five.

The clock was ticking irritatingly loudly, making Arthur scrunch up his nose as he studied the times tables in front of him, writing in ‘66’ next to ‘8x8’ with less than stellar confidence. What didn’t help either, was the incessant tugging on the little finger of his dominant hand, which was every so often being wiggled and jerked, as if the person on the other end were bored and fiddling with it.

Well Arthur wasn’t bored, he was struggling with maths, and so the usually welcome reminder that there was definitely someone at the other end of the string was rather soured by the fact his 81 was made to look like some kind of exotic fish when the string was pulled particularly hard.

In a not, on the whole, well thought out act of passive aggression he tugged back just as hard in what was supposed to be a ‘cut it out’ gesture, but in his soulmates apparently infinite wisdom they took it as a ‘tug of war’ gesture and yanked back on the string so hard that it made Arthur yelp in pain and fall harshly onto the threadbare carpeting of the classroom.

Everyone stared, including the teacher, a severe sixty-something, who was planning to retire the following year but wished to have retired ten years prior, whose stare was less of the amused or awestruck looks of his peers and more the irritated and disappointed look of a teacher who’d been teaching year fives long enough to no longer put up with their shit.

Arthur smiled sheepishly, his eyes flicking to Dylan who was barely stifling laughter, “Sorry miss, my soulmate th-“

“Enough,” interrupted the teacher, waving a hand, “your soulmate is not in my class, Mr. Kirkland, therefore you will have to take the blame for interrupting this test. Hand in what you have and then report to the headmaster’s office.”

Arthur’s eyes widened in awe, but he didn’t protest as he got up and left, receiving only a gentle tug on the ring finger of his right hand from Dylan as comfort. His soulmate received the biggest yank he could muster as he stomped down the hall, fuming at their audacity, and he hated to admit how the small sharp tug he got in reply as if to say ‘ok you win’ brought a smile back to his face.

Insufferable as they may have been, whoever they may be, it didn’t stop Arthur from lazily daydreaming about who his soulmate would be, or what they’d be like, if they’d sweep him off his feet or if he would be the one to do the sweeping.

Like in year seven, when Arthur and Dylan were lounging in Dylan’s pigsty of a bedroom, on Dylan’s pigsty of a bed, Dylan teased him for twirling the string around his finger and grinning at it.

“It’s not like in the movies y’know!” he laughed, rolling his eyes as he tugged his hair into a messy ponytail high on his head, “You always get like this after someone finds a soulmate.”

“I don’t,” Arthur replied, despite knowing it was a hideous lie, “It’s just because it’s _Francis_ of all people, he’s not allowed to find his soulmate yet.”

“Soulmates,” Dylan corrected, “Plural.”

“Two platonic, three romantic, the bloody nerve!” Arthur huffed and fell back against the bed, landing uncomfortably on a bunched up sheet and tugging it out from under himself irritably. “I bet he’s not even lying either, smegging git.”

Dylan hummed, he’d heard this rant before, “Y’know Art, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were disappointed you weren’t among them.”

“Shut it Dylan, you’re my soulmate but that doesn’t mean I have to like you.”

“Oh good, that’s a weight off my chest.”

Arthur pushed him off the bed then with a loud laugh and a “fuck off!”

He imagined many soulmates throughout the rest of his school years, sometimes they were a girl with long brown curls and startling grey eyes, sometimes a short man with a wide smile and dimples in his cheeks, sometimes they were just a figure standing in the distance, light laughter carrying over the wind as they stood atop a hill and wooped for joy, dancing to a song to which there were no words.

He knew nothing for certain, however, until one night when he was 17 and studying for exams.

A familiar tug on his finger simply made him roll his eyes. His soulmate had been tugging on the string more often recently, a fact which Arthur only bit his lip at in fondness. He liked to know the person on the other end of the string was there, even if he had no idea where ‘there’ was aside from ‘mostly north’.

This was slightly different though, catching his attention as the tugging repeated in a regular pattern, over and over, and with the kind of pauses and gaps which didn’t suggest they were going with the beat of a song.

It took him a long minute to connect the short tugs and long pulls with the call of an SOS in Morse code.

“Holy fucking shit!” was his initial reaction, his second was, “Dad! Holy shit Dad get in here!”

His dad appeared a moment later with wide worried eyes, “Arthur wha-“

“You know Morse code right? My soulmate, they’re- on my string- shit, I think it’s Morse code, three short tugs, then three long ones, then three short ones and then it repeats.”

His dad’s eyes widened even further, hurrying into the room to take the seat across from his son and grabbing a scrap piece of paper and a pencil to jot something down, “Here, pull this back,”

He handed the note over and Arthur read over the sequence of dots and dashes, before doing as he was told. He swallowed thickly when he was done, a worried pit having formed in his stomach that made him want to vomit.

A moment later there was a reply;

_Long, short… long, long, long…_

“No, shit,” his Dad said, taking the paper back and writing something else.

“No?” Arthur asked, his voice higher with worry than it had been since it had broken two years previous, “No what?”

“I asked if they were ok, they said no,” his dad replied as he handed the paper back with a new sequence of dots and dashes, “This one asks what happened.”

Arthur nodded as he relayed the message, the urge to vomit the opposite of relieved by his dad’s answer.

The reply was long, making Arthur worry multiple times if he was copying it down right, but it was apparently legible because after a moment his dad spoke.

“They fell and hurt their ankle,” his dad said as he read the reply, “Their phone broke and they’re alone. I think.”

Arthur chewed on his lip, his eyebrows pulled tight together through the next few exchanges.

“Where are you?”

“Seven Lochs, Glasgow, Scotland. Help?”

“Yes. What’s your name?”

“Alasdair MacDonald.”

Arthur gasped as his dad read out the name of his soulmate, of all the times to get a giddy flutter in his chest. But now he knew more about his soulmate than he ever had.

His soulmate was a man, a Scottish man who lived in Glasgow and had injured himself at nine in the evening in a deserted park.

The figure on the hill morphed, they were now masculine, tall, wide shoulders, arms spread wide against the wind as he faced away from where Arthur stood at the bottom of the hill, and Arthur could imagine a smile on his face despite the fact he couldn’t see it.

Arthur’s Dad reached for Arthur’s phone then, dialing 999 as he wrote another message for Arthur to send, pointing to the computer and then pointing at the code. Nodding when Arthur brought up a Morse alphabet.

“Calling 999.”

“Thank you. Cold as balls.”

Arthur laughed, covering his mouth.

The figure turned, running down the hill clumsily, still bubbling with laughter but now it was deep and rugged, barrelling forward until he fell head over heels, laughter never stopping, face covered in mud and grime when he finally came to a stop.

“Daft twat.”

“Yeah.”

Arthur laughed again.

The figure skidded to a stop, falling onto his back and wiping at his face as Arthur ran over laughing at his idiocy. He fell beside the figure, getting mud on his knees but not caring because the figure dragged him down further, the two of them laughing like maniacs.

“Arthur Kirkland by the way.”

“Oh my god.”

Arthur paused for just long enough in confusion at the reply for another to come through.

“Sorry, blushing.”

Arthur grinned.

The figure paused in his laughter after a moment, his eyes flicking over Arthur’s face as a dark tint came to his cheeks, a muddy hand reaching up to brush over Arthur’s cheek, a soft look in his eyes. Too soft, too sweet, too perfect, a look he’d dreamed of for years and years.

“Me too.”

And it wasn’t a lie because his cheeks got as warm as his smile.

“My soulmate.”

“Yeah.”

Arthur’s dad caught Arthur’s attention then, handing him his phone back and then leaving to seemingly give him privacy, “Tell him they’re on their way.”

Arthur nodded, “They’re coming now.”

“Thank fuck.”

“How’d this happen?”

“Long story.”

“Tell me later?”

“Ok.”

Arthur’s heart fluttered a little at the thought that they were going to speak again. His soulmate and he were going to speak again, he’d met his soulmate. He thought his chest was going to burst.

Their conversation continued in this same slow vein for a further half hour, Arthur’s replies and translations taking a long time to process and reply length itself limited meant that the conversation couldn’t exactly go far, but eventually he got a tug that set his mind at ease.

“They’re here.”

“Good.”

There was no reply to that, and Arthur spent five minutes sitting alone in the kitchen twirling the string around his finger as his heart thudded with thoughts of Alasdair.

His soulmate Alasdair.

He didn’t notice his dad enter the room again until a phone was handed to him with a conspiratorial smile.

He pressed it to his ear with a confused, “Hello?”

The voice that answered him was deep and rich, thick with its Scottish origin, and the thought of what that meant sent thrills all the way down Arthur’s spine. “This wouldn’t happen to be the guy on the other end of my string would it?”

Arthur bit his lip through a grin, “It depends, is this the dipshit who hurt his ankle in a park at nine at night?”

The laugh that answered him matched the voice perfectly, and Arthur could imagine it was the kind of laugh that reached right to the eyes. “The very same,” there was a pause where neither of them spoke, Arthur having no idea what to say, and then Alasdair laughed again, “Trust me to meet you this way.”

“Oh? You get into stupid shit often do you?” Arthur asked, the momentary awkwardness gone, and Arthur couldn’t help but thank whatever deity had given them the strings in the first place that Alasdair seemed to be able to hold a conversation.

“I’d like to say no, but I’d be lying, blame my mates, they’re a bad influence.”

“And I’m sure they had everything to do with tonight?”

“In a roundabout kinda way I can blame them for it, yeah.”

“How so?”

“Well my roommate has his girlfriend over and they started snogging on my couch so I left them to do whatever the fuck they’re gonna do in peace.”

“Understandable.”

“And then I called my _other_ mate so we could go to the pub and I decided to cut across the park, which was… darker than expected. I’m sort of surprised I didn’t get mugged.”

“Me too, why on earth did you think that would be a good idea?”

“I may have already have had a couple of beers at that point.”

“Ahh, I see…”

“Yeah so long story short I tripped over a root, fell down a ditch and fucked up my ankle. Ankles actually, I fucked both of them up.”

Arthur didn’t bother to contain his snort, a giddy smile overtaking his face as he curled in on himself and leant his hand on his palm, “You utter prat.”

“Shut it ok, I’m not trying to deny it, but aren’t you supposed to be nice to your soulmate who’s currently being carted along in a stretcher?”

“I’m just trying to establish the level of sympathy I’m going to continue to have for any further antics.”

There was a beat of silence and then, “Thank you, I mean it, I don’t know what I’d have done if I were stuck in that ditch all night until someone found me.”

Arthur grimaced at the thought, “I’m just glad you knew Morse code. How _do_ you by the way…?”

Arthur could hear the shrug in Alasdair’s voice as he replied, “Call me a cryptography nerd, it’s not like Morse code is difficult, I mean you seemed to pick it up.”

“My dad knows it, that was him in the beginning, but… yeah, I suppose so.”

Arthur wrapped the string around his finger as he spoke, tugging on it. When he heard Alasdair chuckle his heart skipped a beat.

“Do you mind, you’re pulling the phone away from my ear.”

“Use the other hand then you prat.”

Arthur’s string was tugged, and he took a long, steadying breath and he took in the fact that, finally, he knew the person at the end of the string.

His other soulmate, he finally knew both of his soulmates. And that thought made him happier than he could remember being in a long time.

Dylan was a smug bastard as always when he found out. Arthur didn’t mind, it was his own fault for calling him at three in the goddamn morning after the hospital staff had told them to get off the phone and let Alasdair get some bloody rest.

“…Yeah so he broke one angle and got a bad sprain and a hairline fracture on the other so now he’s stuck in a wheelchair until he heals enough to use crutches.”

Dylan snorted over the phone, “Tell you what, it’s a good fucking thing you both live in the UK and speak English, or else he’d have been right up shit creek.”

Arthur grimaced, twirling the string back around his finger and tugging simply to feel the tug he got in return, “Don’t remind me, I honestly have no idea what I’d have done if he’d started spouting Icelandic to me.”

“It was probably worse for him though,” Dylan supplied, “I mean for all he knew his soulmate just lives south of him, he coulda had French, or Spanish, or Italian, or any of the million fuckin’ African languages, he’s probably shitting himself with relief right now.”

Arthur didn’t disagree, but he refused to make a further comment out of the horrific thought of him receiving the same message but being able to do nothing. Hell, even if Alasdair’d spoken English but lived in Iceland, or if Arthur had lived in France, then he’d have been powerless to help. Had to have left his soulmate to wait in the cold in pain at night until someone found him the next day.

The idea alone sent a shiver down his spine.

Dylan was good at distracting Arthur from his own thoughts, however, “What’s his voice like?”

Well, that started him off on a whole new tangent.

He’d known from a relatively young age that deep voices were something he very much enjoyed, on men or women it didn’t matter. Something about a strong, rich, deep voice sent tingles to all the right places and wrapped him in a cocoon of warmth and content. If he were being honest he could listen to Alasdair talk for hours.

Had, in fact, listened to Alasdair ramble on until they reached the hospital, then as he insisted that they stay on the phone even through the course of the doctor examining his ankles because “He’s my soulmate doc, anything you can tell me you can tell him.” And if he were being honest hearing Alasdair say that had caused him a little more pleasure than it strictly should have.

When he told Dylan this, he snorted.

“You’re a fucking hopeless case, y’know that?”

Arthur hummed, “I just met my soulmate, if you recall when we met we were inseparable for a full week.”

Arthur could hear the other boy snort once again, “Oh how foolish I was, if only my three year old brain could have known what a pisshead you’d be when you grew up.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, his voice going flat and dry, “Haha, do you hear that, I’m laughing, _guffawing,_ you’re so funny Dylan.”

“Thank you, it comes from a place of deep emotional trauma from having to be around you all the time.”

“I love you too Dylan.”

Dylan laughed, and made a kissy noise into the receiver, “Aww you _do_ care.”

“Goodnight Dylan.”

“Night bunny.”

Arthur groaned and hit the button to end the call, his fingers rubbing at his temples and a grin on his lips.

There was something nice about having one soulmate tease you about the other.

Something amazing about knowing both people who fate had tied to him.

He held both strings close to his chest, feeling Dylan pull on it playfully, and for the first time in a long, long while he felt utterly and absolutely whole.

Arthur managed to speak to Alasdair again the next day, in the evening when Alasdair had just come home from the hospital with the help of his roommate, and Arthur had just finished dinner. Arthur giddy beyond words, and by the sound of Alasdair’s voice, despite spending a night and a day in a hospital he shared the sentiment.

Something Arthur hadn’t anticipated was just how easy it would turn out to be to talk to your soulmate. How he could simply talk, about anything and everything, like how he spoke to Dylan, even without the years and years of knowing each other. There was a sense of ease that came from knowing that you were bound to the person you were talking to, especially after living with a soulmate for so many years, knowing the kind of connection you were destined to have.

Arthur supposed it simply took away the pressure to be anyone but yourself, which was always his least favourite part of socializing if he were honest with himself.

It was also nice how they had already affecting each other lives in little ways and how they managed to share experiences with each other even before they’d truly met.

Like how Arthur was known as a delinquent punk because he got so many detentions, but most of them were Alasdair’s fault.

Like the time Arthur had sworn loudly in class when Alasdair ruined his game of cat’s cradle by managing to unwrap it from his fingers in one irritating _tug_.

Or how Alasdair was apparently known as a clumsy prat because he dropped things or got himself hurt, but most of the time they were as a direct result of Arthur’s meddling with the string.

Like the time Alasdair had apparently managed to slip and sprain his knee after Arthur had pulled it, wrapping his legs in the string playing rugby in the mud.

The talk of being a delinquent punk obviously led on to Alasdair finding out Arthur had piercings and tattoos. A not-so-subtle way to tell his teachers to shove it up their ass along with his dyed green hair. With each piercing he got he could feel the sticks up the school’s arses getting more and more twisted, with each drop of ink in his skin felt them get more miffed with his refusal to conform. Not to mention the fact that when he paired them up with some ripped jeans and a studded jacket he looked fucking sexy. A sentiment on which Arthur had been _extremely_ pleased to find out Alasdair shared his views.

“Wait, what kind of piercings?”

Arthur’s grin rivalled that of the Cheshire cat as he heard the slight crack in Alasdair’s voice. He loved when his partners liked his piercings, made him feel as if the pain in the arse that cleaning them was was all _utterly_ worth it. Not to mention he liked the idea of being sexy to someone, especially if that someone was someone he was pretty much _destined_ to have sex with some day.

“Four in each ear, septum, snake bites, and…” he always left this one as the final blow because he _knew_ what it would imply and he had absolutely no problem doing so, “Tongue.”

“ _Tongue_?”

And there it was.

Arthur’s grin widened, “Mmn, I got it for the benefit of one of my old girlfriends if I’m honest, but I’m sure the principle is the same.”

He wasn’t lying, not really, he’d wanted a tongue piercing anyway, but when his last girlfriend had offhandedly mentioned that tongue piercings feel _fantastic_ when receiving oral, his heart was pretty much set on which one he’d get next.

Turns out she was right, not that he’d ever tested the idea on a man, but he was sure it most definitely wouldn’t feel _bad_.

There was a breathless laugh from Alasdair, “Holy shit you’re fucking something you know that?”

Arthur snorted, “You know, that’s what my old girlfriend said too?”

Alasdair’s next words were muffled as if he’d put his head in his hands, and Arthur loved how he imagined him blushing, “We’ve known each other three days and you’re already offering to blow me.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh along with Alasdair at that, at the groan that Alasdair’s laugh turned into, “In all fairness,” Arthur chuckled, “I didn’t _offer_ so much as _imply…_ ”

“Fate was right, you’re fucking _perfect_.”

That made Arthur freeze, a blush crawling up his face worse than any he’d ever experienced in his life. Something about Alasdair calling him a _perfect_ soulmate was too much for his fragile heart and he could feel it beating in his ears as he made a noise he’d never previously known he could make.

“Artie, you ok?”

He fell backward, and this time he was the one covering his face, “No, fuck Alasdair, I-“

Oh, and there was the strange incoherent noise again.

“Did you just offer to blow me with zero hesitation and then get flustered when I called you perfect?” Alasdair’s voice was laced thick with amusement and something soft which made the already hot flush on Arthur’s cheeks heat up even more. A fondness which shouldn’t have been present after only three days, but then again, Arthur supposed if you were going to be fond of anyone it was going to be the boy attached to the string on your finger.

“S _ituph oup_!” was Arthur’s eloquent reply muffled through the palms of his hands.

There was a moment of silence, and then Alasdair spoke again, quietly, as if he weren’t really even speaking to Arthur anymore, “Perfect. Holy shit he’s fucking perfect.”

Which didn’t help Arthur’s blush any, but it did make his heart flutter, which was something, he supposed.

“There was a reporter who knocked on the door today,” Alasdair had said a week or so after they met, with a grimace in his voice and the kind of irritated venom that meant it hadn’t been an altogether pleasant experience.

“Oh?” Arthur’s voice held a similar grimace.

“Aye,” Alasdair grunted, and there was shuffling in the other side of the line which suggested that he was rolling over, “Heard what happened and apparently wanted to run a story on us.”

“Really? Already?” Eugh, the press was always sticking their noses in where they don’t belong, business which should have remained private and no one but the affected parties ever needed to know about. It was a small wonder, Arthur supposed, that it had taken them this long to begin to hassle them, “I presume you didn’t say yes.”

“Fuck no I didn’t say yes, are you kidding?” Alasdair snorted in derision, “My soulmate is my business, they have no right to go shoving their noses in where they don’t belong.”

Arthur felt himself laugh at the parrot of his own thoughts, only taking a small moment to appreciate Alasdair’s similar sense of privacy. Honestly he didn’t know what he’d have done if Alasdair had gone happily to the press and spilled their story to the whole nation. He felt himself grimace at the thought… although it fell into a smirk halfway through as he said, “Are you sure you just didn’t want the whole of Britain to know you fell over in a wood like a drunken pillock and had to Morse code for help?”

Alasdair scoffed, “Yeah, I’m sure, even if I’d met you in a pub, or by bumping into you while out at the shops, or pushed you off a bridge like in that one movie, what was it?”

“The one where they’re a spy and and an assassin?”

“Yeah that one.”

“Fuck.”

“Mrs Spy or some shit wasn’t it?”

“Something like that.”

“Anyway!” Alasdair huffed, making Arthur snort, “What I was _trying to say_ is that even if I’d met you another way I wouldn’t want the news sticking their grimy noses all over it.”

“Me neither.” Arthur sighed, tucking the phone under his ear as he rolled over in his bed, eyes wandering out of his unclosed window to the overcast night sky, and wondering if Alasdair was doing the same. Wondered what it would look like out his own window, wondered if their windows faced the same direction so if it were a clear night they could stare at the same moon like long-distance couples always did in the romance novels he’d never admit he love reading.

“What are you doing right now?”

There was a short pause, a tug on the string which he wordlessly reciprocated until both of them were holding the string taught, “Laying in bed, watching the cars go past, thinking about how long it is until your birthday.”

Arthur bit his lip, frowning at the mention of Alasdair’s self-imposed limit on when they could actually meet each other, “It’s your own fault we have to wait so long.”

“I’m seven years older than you Art, I’d feel skeevy if I didn’t make you wait.”

“Oh yes, because it’s less skeevy if I’m legal… We don’t have to have sex until I’m eighteen, Alasdair.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re not gonna try and jump my bones as soon as you see me?”

Arthur thought about that for a second, took a moment to remember exactly what Alasdair looked like from the picture he’d sent the day after they’d met, how Arthur’s breath had caught in his throat as he saw Alasdair’s sharp cheekbones and crooked nose, his thick red hair, smattering of ginger freckles and piercing green eyes for the first time. Remembered how he’d made Alasdair send another picture with him holding up three fingers just to make sure he wasn’t sending a fake picture.

What made it worse was that Alasdair _definitely_ knew how attractive he was, if the number of pictures of him looking stunning he’d received over snapchat where any indication.

And, well, Arthur wouldn’t call himself particularly _unattractive_ , but Alasdair made him feel like a pre-schooler’s clay project in comparison.

“You’re a big boy I’m sure you can hold me off.”

“Nah, can’t trust myself with you,” Arthur could hear the grin in his voice and couldn’t help the one that came to his own face, “You just look so kissable.”

“I am kissable. My exes can attest that you’re _sorely_ missing out.”

“Yeah well my roommate agrees that I should make you wait, and I trust him on this so you’re shit out of luck Artie.”

Arthur huffed out an irritable breath, “Yeah yeah, I know, it’s probably a good thing anyway, stops us from jumping into something we don’t understand yet.”

“Exactly.”

Still, Arthur couldn’t help the feeling that neither of them really believed it.

A month into whatever it was they had, Arthur hated the time limit more than he had hated anything in his life. Hated that the only way he could see Alasdair was through the many photos he sent, or through a video call. Hated that he couldn’t touch him through anything but the sting.

Dylan could attest to the fact that he’d been extra irritable and cuddly recently. Not that Dylan seemed to mind, never had when Arthur had huffily planted himself in his arms and demanded a hug.

Didn’t even protest when Arthur asked, “What do you think it feels like to hug him?”

Just laughed and said, “Probably like hugging a pile of bricks, the guy’s all muscle.”

“Warm bricks though,” Arthur replied, head tucked under Dylan’s chin and fingers fiddling absentmindedly with his long hair, “Bet he smells nice.”

“He probably smells like a university student who lives off mostly pot noodle.”

“Doesn’t matter, he’d smell of Alasdair.”

“Do you say this shit about me?” Dylan asked with a laugh, poking Arthur in the ribs and making him recoil and slap him lightly in response.

“Fuck no, I’ve lived with you for too many years to romanticize shit about you.”

Dylan pouted, “You wound me, bunny.”

Arthur punched him, Snorting out a laugh, “Oh fuck off!”

Dylan’s hugs could only do so much to alleviate his desire for Alasdair’s, unfortunately. Especially as he watched Alasdair struggle over some kind of math question Arthur would never have a hope in hell of answering, a crinkle in his brow above his tired and slightly bloodshot eyes. He wished he could pass through the computer screen and tug him into bed, hold him tightly to his chest as the man fell into the sleep he obviously needed.

“Shit, Art I need more coffee, I’ll be-“

“Oh for fuck’s sake Al, you’re exhausted go to sleep.”

Alasdair looked up at the screen, scrutinizing Arthur’s face as if trying to figure out if it was worth arguing, “Art I need to have these equations done by morning, I can’t go to sleep. Just…” he yawned widely, making Arthur frown in fond irritation, “I have two more questions, I just gotta- I’ll sleep after, I promise”

“Okay, hurry up and do them then.” Arthur pulled the string tight, watching it grow tight against Alasdair’s own little finger. He pressed the knot to his lips, watching as Alasdair glanced up and grinned at the sight, lifting his own hand to do the same.

Arthur bit his lip, his breath catching at how much the sight made his heart _melt_.

These four months couldn’t pass fast enough.

On Christmas day, Arthur received a message from Alasdair, one that read he should check his snapchat, but only when he was completely alone. When he did he was greeted with a picture of Alasdair shirtless and grinning, his miraculously (he said miraculously only because he’d gotten really rather well acquainted with how much shit Alasdair ate and drank since they’d met) well-defined muscles centre stage and a pair of sweatpants low on his hips.

The caption read ‘Merry Christmas Princess’ a nickname that Alasdair had taken to calling him ever since he’d offhandedly mentioned that he liked needlepoint and yanked him out of his wheelchair for calling him a grandma.

Alasdair’s roommate had found that particular circumstance funnier than Alasdair had, when he walked into Alasdair’s bedroom to find Alasdair spread-eagle on the floor and Arthur laughing his arse off on the computer monitor. That had been the first time Arthur had met Alasdair’s roommate, a man named Seamus who was astoundingly even more ginger than Alasdair was, and three years younger, whom Arthur blamed entirely for the fact he had to wait until April until Alasdair came to see him.

Not that Arthur could really blame him, not from what Alasdair had said about his reasoning anyway.

“His soulmate’s a girl named Siobhan,” he had said as Arthur waited patiently and slightly irritably for an explanation, “Met her about two years ago when he went back for a visit in Ireland. Now, there’s two things you need to know about Vonnie, one; she’s smart, really smart, smart enough to make a fool out of Seamus at any rate, and two; she looks old for her age.”

Arthur’s eyes had widened with realization as soon as he’d heard the words, putting two and two together before Alasdair even had to explain. Still, he let Alasdair continue, “I know for a fact Vonnie feels bad about it, but Shay still feels shitty about the whole situation two years later. She told him she was sixteen, and she looked it too, honestly, you wouldn’t’ve been able to easily pick her up on the lie. So anyway, Shay, horny, nineteen year old Shay slept with her, because they were young and dumb and they only had two weeks together before Shay had to come back to Scotland.”

Alasdair sighed then, running a hand through his hair, “You shoulda seen Shay when he found out she was actually fourteen, flat out refused to talk to her for a week, poor guy was distraught.”

Arthur sighed, leaning his head against his desk in defeat, “And that’s why you want to wait until I’m eighteen, because you think-“

“I think I don’t want us to end up like Shay and Vonnie. I mean they’re happy, so happy, but you can tell, he doesn’t trust her like he should, he’s so wary about everything he does. He always tells me that he feels dirty being with a girl who is that much younger than him, like the people who can’t see their string think he’s grooming her or something.

“I don’t want to feel like that.”

Arthur nodded, “Of course you don’t, and for all my talk I wouldn’t want you to feel like that either.”

Alasdair smiled softly, a reassuring tug at the corners of his lips which made Arthur lift his head and return it reluctantly, “Thank you for understanding.”

Throughout the month of January Arthur watched with amusement as Alasdair’s New Year’s resolution to eat better fell slowly apart. Starting with the night one week in where he’d sat eating McDonald’s chicken nuggets as he worked on something Arthur probably wouldn’t have been able to understand if he tried. His justification being that it had been Seamus’ turn to cook and his idea of cooking involved either inviting Vonnie over to help (Read: cook for him) or getting McDonald’s and unfortunately Vonnie had been busy that day.

His excuse two days later when he was found with a milkshake was that they had been on special offer.

And three days after that when Arthur spotted a multitude of take away containers on his kitchen counter he just harrumphed and said that he’d had friends over and they didn’t want to eat any of his healthy shit.

Each time, as the violations grew in number over the course of the month, Arthur just raised an eyebrow and let him continue to feel justified in the repeated abuses of his new year’s resolution’s loopholes.

It didn’t particularly matter anyway, because on the second of February he sat down heavily in front of the computer with a pot noodle cradled in his hands and said, “Fuck eating healthy, I can’t afford to eat rabbit food.”

To which Arthur just laughed and said, “I’m glad you’ve finally stopped deluding yourself.”

Alasdair was a lot happier after that, something which seemed to make Arthur happier by proxy if Dylan’s smug prodding had anything to say on the matter. Not that Arthur minded, Alasdair in a good mood (or any mood really, but his good moods never failed to turn Arthur to mush) was someone he could very easily see himself falling in love with a few months down the line, and whenever he smiled that dumb, ridiculous lop-sided grin Arthur wanted to kiss the shape of it until the memory was burned into his skin.

So yes, Alasdair’s failure to fulfil his resolution was more of a good thing than you’d think. A point Arthur considered proven when two weeks later on Valentine’s Day Arthur found a bouquet of roses on his doorstep with a note that said:

_I bought these with the money I saved on rabbit food,_

_Happy Valentines day, Princess_

_Love, Al_

Arthur kept them on his bedside table until they were so wilted that his mother had to forcibly remove them from his room for fear they’d rot. Arthur did have the good sense to press one of the roses though, in between the pages of his favourite poetry book so it smelt of roses every time he opened it up. The pressed flower sat on his desk for a while, beside the note, until Arthur set it in resin, sure that he’d want to keep the first rose Alasdair ever sent even when he was old and grey.

Hopefully when they were old and grey together.

That was an altogether too lovely thought. Well fuck him up the ass with an industrial grade lamppost, his hopelessly romantic tendencies were getting ridiculous.

 Not that he minded. No, not as he spun the clear resin around to look at the pressed rose once again, lifting his little finger to his lips and kissing the knot, eagerly awaiting the day that he wouldn’t have to kiss anything other than Alasdair’s lips.

That day couldn’t come bloody soon enough.

There was a day a week before Arthur’s birthday which Arthur thought he would remember fondly for years to come. Well perhaps fondly was the wrong word, but he couldn’t think of another and to be more clear, when he said fondly, he meant when he was alone late at night with only this thoughts, some lotion, and trusted ol’ righty.

Arthur had been tuning his guitar, plucking at the stings absentmindedly as Alasdair listened quietly. He liked it when Arthur played the guitar, said it matched well with his stupid punky bad-boy thing he had going on.

Arthur resented that statement, but played for him anyway because he was a fucking fantastic soulmate.

“You know, I’m going to have one hell of a time stopping Dylan from coming to the train station with me next week.”

Alasdair hummed, his eyes contentedly closed, “I wouldn’t mind if he-“

“I _know_ you wouldn’t, that’s the problem,” Arthur huffed, playing a few chords as he figured out how to word what he was going to say next, “I guess I just want to meet you on my own. Maybe it’s selfish, I don’t know, but I want to be able to make a fool out of myself without having to worry about him grinning smugly about it.”

“He only does it because he likes seeing you happy.”

“I _know_ , but… If he were in my shoes I’d leave him to his privacy, I suppose I just want it to be a moment between us.”

Alasdair opened his eyes and smiled softly, “You’re too precious for your own good,” he sighed wistfully, making Arthur’s cheeks heat up in a way he skilfully hid by playing a few more chords, “I want it to be just us too, that way I can sweep you off your feet and not have to worry about anyone getting uncomfortable when I do nothing but kiss every freckle on your cheeks.”

There was a moment of silence, during which Arthur bit his lip and looked up to Alasdair whose eyes were a strange mixture of soft yearning and dark longing, the mixture of the two curing tight in his gut, “God I want to kiss you.”

Alasdair exhaled, the breath shaky as he sat up, “I want to do way more than kiss you Art, fuck…”

Arthur chuckled, “Yeah… that’s about accurate.”

Another moment of silence, both of them staring at the screen an unbelievable tension that neither of them could do anything to fix.

“Fuck Artie, the shit I would do to you if I could.”

“Tell me,” Arthur placed his guitar gently down on the floor, leaning forward toward the screen and pressing down on his dick with the palm of his hand as he did. He let out a soft groan, sure there was a blush on his cheeks as his eyes met Alasdair’s blown pupils, “Tell me what you’d do to me Alasdair.”

Alasdair looked stunning when he was turned on. Like something he’d imagined in a fantasy far too many times come to life. Pale skin which turned pink at the slightest provocation along with his habits of chewing his lips and running his hands through his hair left him looking deliciously dishevelled in no time at all, which only lead Arthur to imagine what he’d look like spread out over a bed like that, or hovering over him, those dark eyes made darker by his hair forming a curtain around them. Arthur couldn’t help but imagine what those lips would look like if bitten red by his own, what that neck would look like sucked black and blue with love-bites.

As it turned out, Alasdair also looked stunning later that night, when his head was thrown back, chest flushed and heaving, and leg thrown over the arm of his chair so as to leave nothing to the imagination.

Eyes solidly on each other as they did their best to keep muttering dirty things between grunts and gasps the closer they got to their ends.

Arthur had never seen anything sexier in his almost eighteen years of life.

A week after that, Arthur was standing alone outside the train station near his house, his parents having come for long enough for Arthur to shoo them away down the high street to meet up with them later.

This time was for Arthur and Alasdair.

Arthur and his soulmate.

He leant back against the wall at he watched the angle of his string begin to rapidly change, the way Dylan’s usually did, and he knew Alasdair was close.

He swallowed down the nervous lump in his throat at the thought of that.

The thought of Alasdair.

Alasdair, his soulmate, his soulmate who he’d been talking to over phone and skype and text but had never before in his life seen in person. His soulmate who made his heart flutter despite all of that, had succeeded to do that since the very first moment they met. His soulmate who was in that train station right now, getting closer by the second, and soon he’d walk through those doors and he’d smile that beautiful crooked smile and Arthur would spontaneously combust because there was no way this was real.

He took a long, slow breath, closing his eyes against the pull of air into his lungs, holding it there for a moment to calm his heart.

He didn’t exhale until he felt a tug on his string and his eyes bolted open to find a pair of beautiful green eyes and a stunning crooked smile.

His breath caught on the way back in.

“Hey princess,”

And oh god, his voice was even more delicious in person.

Arthur reached up a hand, fingers curling around Alasdair’s sharp jaw and thumb tracing Alasdair’s worried red bottom lip. He took a moment to pick apart everything that was different in person, how his nose was more visibly crooked, how his eyes were more of a deep forest green than the olive he’d previously thought, how his freckles stood out solidly on his cheekbones.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice was quiet and breathless but he didn’t fully care.

Because then he was on his toes, his arms tight around Alasdair’s neck as Alasdair’s came to wrap around his waist. Feeling Alasdair’s strong arms curl around his body, his surprisingly soft hair against his fingers, his rough and chapped lips against his own.

He tasted like spearmint and chocolate, smelled like cologne and the scent which can only be described as _train_ , felt like warmth and a close feeling of safety he could only call _home_. Amazing under his lips after so long.

And even though the proverbial fireworks didn’t spark behind him, the angelic choir failing to descend from above, there was no doubt in his mind that he was kissing the man he was meant to be with. The swelling in his chest as his heart beat out of a steady rhythm, and the feeling of Alasdair’s heavily thumping against his fingers. How he could feel the string tangling between them.

The string.

Their string.

He leant back and grinned, feeling a laugh barrel through Alasdair’s chest as he did.

“Hey,” Alasdair repeated, and Arthur kissed him quickly again.

“Hey,” he replied after a moment, an excited laugh in his voice, “You’re here.”

Alasdair nodded in equal amounts of giddy excitement, the arms around Arthur’s waist tightening as he picked him up and spun him around, “I’m here, you’re here, we’re together!”

“We are!”

And then they were kissing again and laughing into each other’s mouths.

There was a cough to the side, making Arthur jump and look up to find his parents standing there with a camera and sheepish expressions. “Sorry poppet,” his mother said, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “We couldn’t help ourselves.”

All Arthur could bring himself to do in response is groan into Alasdair’s neck, ignoring the way his three companions laughed and instead focusing on how Alasdair pressed a kiss to his temple.

Alasdair was here with him, holding him and kissing him and he smelled of cologne and train and he was laughing and shaking his parents’ hands and…

Alasdair was there, and as he pulled himself out of Alasdair’s grip and twisted their hands together, their string getting tangled in their fingers as he did, he couldn’t help but think the wait was well worth it.

Because now he was standing here with the final third of his soul he’d known had been missing.

And he’d never felt more whole in his life.

_There was a figure on a hill, the sky was clear and the wind blew roughly against his silhouette. Arthur watched from the bottom of the hill as the figure turned around, Alasdair’s smiling face greeting him and gesturing for him to join him atop the hill._

_And Arthur did, he ran up the hill, slipping in the mud and panting heavily as his lungs protested the activity. But he made it, reached the top of the hill flushed pink but feeling utterly_ alive, _and as he did Alasdair pulled him into his arms, soothing his burning lungs and burning face with a smattering of rough-lipped kisses._

_The beat of his heart roared in his ears and the light of the suddenly setting sun burnt his eyes and the whipping wind seared his cheeks raw but none of it mattered. Alasdair’s strong arms were all there was, his soft eyes, his hard lips._

_There were two figures on a hill, silhouetted against the sun, blind to the world other than themselves._

_Utterly in love._


End file.
